


Impressions

by wakandan_wardog



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Companionable Snark, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, Gen, Getting Together, Identity Porn, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Character(s), Secret Identity, Wait Is This A Date?, adorable idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-06-15 20:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakandan_wardog/pseuds/wakandan_wardog
Summary: I was gifted a beautiful Moodboard for True, Strong and Brave. I offered a gratitude fic for the maker's pairing and trope of choice! This is a WinterIron Identity Porn story!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my love and thanks to the epic beta that is my partner in crime, [Meg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelmeg/profile)  
> .

“We appreciate your patience!” One of the baristas yelps, as she dives back to the kitchen and the crowd mutters collectively in annoyance.

Slinking toward the farthest section of the pickup counter, James Barnes watches her go with a sympathetic shake of his head. The crowd around him ripples, parting around an insistent and belligerent customer. James alone remains unmoved, cutting the lawyer a glare as the man tries to elbow him. “You heard the girl, so be _patient_.”

“I have somewhere to be!” The man grumbles.

“Sure ya do.” He just barely reins in the impulse to roll his eyes. “Don’t we all.”

For all that he’s been back to a somewhat civilian lifestyle for months, crowded places still make him edgy. New York isn’t really the best place to live when trapped-animal-fear is your first reaction to a public location. But it’s not like he has that many other options, his life story being what it is and coworkers being who they are. At least there's an advantage of his job, he doesn’t spend much time here anyway.

Still, the immediate fear-aggression response of the Soldier is the reason James tends to avoid the more tourist-rich sections of the city. He shuns the metro when he can, and picks off-the-beaten-path locations for his much-needed caffeine fix. This morning it seems to have failed him, his favorite coffee shop is understaffed and overly full. But it’s also the last place he can get a decent coffee before he heads out to the park.

 _‘Keep it level, Barnes, it shouldn’t be much longer.’_ He reminds himself, scowling reflexively at the approaching body.

“Vanilla Macchiato for a JB?” The harried girl behind the counter squeaks at him. She looks timid as she skids to a halt, sliding the cup across the counter under the pickup sign. James schools his face into a more neutral expression and nods.

“Have a nice day!” With the shop short-handed she darts off again, clambering to make coffees for the next three people waiting.

Refusing to join in the complaining that most of the others have already sunk to, the Brooklyn-born Soldier scoops up the drink with a flick of his right hand. “Thanks.”

Beverage in hand, he turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the door. On the way, he dodges an exasperated soccer mom and three businessmen on various cell phones. There might even be a slight chair-vault in a bid to escape the cramped coffee house, but he’d never admit it. For all that the coffee shop is tucked in an alcove off Barrow -a one-way street- the sidewalk seems unreasonably busy.

 _‘Everyone in a rush to get to Jersey all of a sudden?’_ James wonders as he weaves through the line forming in the courtyard outside the coffee shop.

Once through the crowd, he escapes back onto Barrow Street and takes a deep breath. It’s something of a relief to be on the main sidewalk with its wider avenue, but there seems to be an unreasonable amount of cars using Barrow as cut-through on their way to somewhere else. Still, with open sky above him, there’s a little bit less of a concentrated sound, and he feels relieved to be no longer pressed into a corner while waiting on his coffee.

Sipping at the coffee certainly helps.

James drinks deeply as he walks, joining the flow of foot traffic while keeping his metal hand tucked into his pocket and out of sight. A messenger bag rides at his left hip, filled with files he needs to review and sign off on before he goes on his next op. Since there’s no telling exactly when that will be, he’s determined to take the most boring ones with him to the hidden garden at St. Luke, in the hopes that he can breeze through them all and sign off like he needs to. The last few times he’s tried at home, he’s woken up from an unexpected nap at the sound of his SHIELD cell phone.  

The chances of him doing that in public are slim to none, but the Gardens at St. Luke in the Field are usually fairly quiet and the hidden garden even moreso. Still, that’s only if he gets through this damn crowd in a reasonable amount of time.

“Where the hell did all these people come from?” He wonders to himself, sipping at the coffee and relaxing slightly at the taste.

Out of nowhere, there’s a loud crashing crumble of impact. It comes from somewhere up ahead, on Hudson Street he thinks. Out of habit, the Soldier reacts, throwing on the breaks and wrenching his body sideways into an alcove as he drops to a knee to present a smaller target. His coffee flies in the other direction, but it can’t be helped.

The flow of foot-traffic turns into a wave, people surging back in the direction he’d recently come from. James takes a moment to be thankful that they’re a few streets off the Hudson, there’s a chance of safety rather than all of them being trapped between a fight and the river. Some of the pedestrians dart into the road, running parallel to the traffic that speeds up to escape whatever impacted behind them.

“Thank goodness it’s a one-way street.” James mutters as he straightens, darting out on the sidewalk and running against the stampede of people.

He shoves them gently to his left or right, encouraging them away from whatever the hell the threat might be. Sliding to a halt as he rounds the corner, James eyes the shattered brickwork of one of the classic Hudson Street buildings. The building is still standing, but the street-facing facade is crumbling and raining brick and more down on the Hudson diner and the umbrella-scattered dining area.

About three stories up there’s a smoking crater that indicates a harsh impact, and as he watches the facade shudders and crumples further. The building remains sturdy but it looks like at least two apartments have lost their exterior wall to the strike of an object of unknown size.

“Hell.” James sighs, slinging the strap of his bag more firmly across the his chest as he darts across the street. With his coffee lost there’s no need to move with care. Weaving around people he hurtles forward, picking up the nearest downed citizen and nudging them firmly back toward Barrow Street. “Get outta here! Call 9-1-1!”

There’s no telling if the man hears him, scrambling away with a blind, animal terror. James sees him safely around the corner and turns forward, catching a woman careening down the sidewalk and spinning her around before shoving her after the man. It’s quiet back toward the river, as far as he can tell, but he can’t see exactly what caused the damage to begin with.

It doesn’t stop him from sprinting over to the dining area and pushing aside one of the half-wrecked tables in a bid to get to a pile of rubble. He’s not sure if there are people in there or not, but it won’t hurt to look. With no other bodies in reach, James reaches into his pocket and presses a button on his cell, holding it to his ear as he puts his metal shoulder to a cross-section of a wall. He takes a deep breath and then shoves it away from the face of the building and toward an open section of sidewalk, drooping in relief as he sees only a tangle of mauled chairs and no broken bodies within.

He doesn’t even hesitate as soon as he hears a response.

“Hill here.”

“Barnes reporting an incident! ‘M currently working my way through downed brickwork at the Hudson Street diner. Impact to the building, three stories up, looks like a couple apartments got wiped out. Possible structural damage, ya better send response to my location! Impact, fairly large object, no clear sightline!” He snaps, pushing a tangle of tables aside to find a waiter huddled near the edge of the patio. He offers the man a hand up and shoves him gently toward the diner doors. “Get off the street, kid.”

Lightning cracks overhead, and James swears as he spins around in time to see it strike the rooftop of a building a few blocks away. “That sure as hell doesn’t look good.”

Hill goes on point. “What’s your view like?”

“About forty fuckin’ stories too low! Get me backup!” He yells, throwing himself back toward the street to get clear as another section of wall tumbles free with an ominous rumble. It fractures apart on the sidewalk, sending fragments of brick and mortar in all directions. James feels the impact at his hip and flesh shoulder, and another piece clocks him upside the head.

“Barnes!” Hill yells distantly, but James is too busy throwing himself in a roll to heed her. He takes the impact with the sidewalk to his metal shoulder, rolling over the curb and sprawling behind a parked car. Hell if he knows where his cell goes in the scuffle, but he feels fine until he tries to stand. His blood roars in his ears and he sways, one foot braced beneath him but the other knee still folded.

While he tries to summon up the balance to try again, IronMan drops down in a typical three-point pose, straightening slowly to full height. Blood roaring in his ears or not, James has _eyes_. There’s power and grace in every movement, the soft hum and smooth glide of mechanics both impressive and daunting. There’s faint scorching on the hotrod red of the chest, plaster and cement dust over the shoulders and helmet. On the whole he seems unharmed, but certainly not pristine.

“Easy, handsome.” The distorted voice murmurs as a metallic hand reaches for him. “You alright?”

“Fine.” James mumbles, going still when the hero catches his chin and tilts his head to one side. “Got some civilians out… Was there anyone in that building?”

“Mostly just me when I hit it.” IronMan admits. “I think this will be the last time I agree to help out the Fantastic Four. Anyway, how are we feeling? Do you know your name?”

“ ‘m James.” He admits, a little hazy around the edges. “What’s your name?”

There’s a computerized laugh, and the helmet shakes fondly. “No good, Storm-Eyes, I’m afraid that’s classified.”

“Right.” James nods, feeling his cheeks heat. “I knew that. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind at all.” IronMan replies. “Listen, James. You look like you got hit, so, why don’t you allow me?”

Before James can argue the hero sweeps him up in a bridal carry and _takes flight_ , which, _wow_. His head is already a little spinny because of the impact to his temple, and the sudden whistle of wind past his ears makes that even more dizzying. James has flown in planes, has made a living doing all sorts of crazy stuff. On occasion that has included jumping from rooftops, windows, or balconies; which he’s accepted without complaint. He’s certainly done his fair share of flying, but IronMan is different.

 _‘You’re a soldier, keep it together.’_ He admonishes himself, his left hand flexing and then gripping the armor as IronMan course corrects.

“Don’t worry.” IronMan sounds amused. “I won’t drop you. I’d be a pretty terrible hero if I did.”

“I wouldn’t be the one saying it.” James argues. “Seeing as how you rescued me and all.”

“Is it a rescue if you were already helping civilians and just managed to get banged up in the line of duty?” IronMan wonders idly. “I mean, I wouldn’t claim credit for rescuing a police officer. Wait, are you a plain clothes detective? Am I cramping your style?”

“Not a cop. You can take some credit.” James argues. “Seems like the ones that’d say bad things about ya aren’t the ones that have actually met ya… So I don’t think I’ll listen to their opinions, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Reserving judgement?” The metal head tilts, blue glinting eyes fixing on him for a moment before they bank slightly.

“Makin’ up my own mind, if that’s alright?” His tone goes a little arch, but he can’t help it.

Beneath his hand, the armor is slightly warm. James brushes his fingertips over the smooth surface, wondering at the temperature. It’s possibly due to the sun overhead or a drawn out battle or the kinetic energy of impact with a building, a few floors and possibly the street. Still, the curl of arms around his ribs and under his knees are gentle sort of support, and James leans into the chest of the armor, staring at the soft glow, the light in the chest inset like a captive star.

The flight is guaranteed to be a short one, so he resolves to enjoy it while he can. He knows Hill will dispatch SHIELD agents to his last registered location, and he’s fairly certain his cell phone is somewhere in the rubble. The good news is that it’s either locked or crushed, the bad news is that Hill is certain to lecture him regardless.

 _‘Don’t think about that now.’_ He scolds himself. _‘That’s definitely not important right now.’_

“I don’t mind. Oh look, some lovely emergency responders. Guess that means we’re at your stop, Gorgeous.” IronMan murmurs, bringing them to a gentle landing. “Thanks for flying Air IronMan, your go-to transport from disaster zones near you.”

James laughs a little bit, he can’t help it.

The robotic suit doesn’t emote, but he gets the feeling IronMan is pleased before the words continue. “You ok to stand? Your temple’s still bleeding, are you dizzy?”

James feels the arm supporting his legs gently release, the grip around his ribs holding as he touches the ground. Still, the hold persists, IronMan’s now-free hand rising to brush at the flow of liquid he can now feel seeping down over his cheekbone and toward his jaw. “I’m fine… Not dizzy.”

“You sure?” IronMan’s head tilts, and James finds himself admiring the mechanics of the suit.

The movement is smooth and adorably bewildered, for all that the expression on the metal faceplate never changes, and he smiles in spite of himself.

There’s a tsk from the suit, and IronMan shakes his helmeted head again. “Well, neither of us are medical professionals so I’m going to remain politely skeptical. How about you sit down on this curb for me?”

“That… might be best.” James admits, nodding as he allows the hero to lower him into a seat. “You gotta be goin’?”

“Gonna check the structure again, see if there’s a kitten up a tree, you know, the usual.” IronMan replies. “You sit here, I’ve waved an EMT over. They’ll see about that pretty head of yours.”

“‘Bout to start somethin’, sweet-talkin me like that.” James mutters. “Go save the day, will ya?”

“Stay here until the EMT checks you out.” IronMan scolds stepping backward.

“Thought ya already did?” James shoots him a smirk.

“I don’t have time to stay and flirt with you.” IronMan sounds disappointed by the fact. “But I’m checking with the EMT later, I want a report on a pretty man named James. So _stay there_ and talk to the nice Doctor, sweetheart.”

“Keep talkin’ like that, I’m gonna think you’re sweet on me.” James can’t help but grin.

“There are worse things that could happen.” IronMan retorts with a salute, and with a glow of repulsors at palms and boots, he shoots up into the sky and darts off.

James cranes his head back, watching the streak of crimson and gold as IronMan departs. “Yeah… I guess there are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer, I've never been to New York or New Jersey. But there is a Garden at St. Luke in the Field, which is open to the public. There is also a secret garden at this location, and the whole thing is near Barrow and Hudson St! (Thank you, Google Maps.)


	2. Chapter 2

Maria Hill is no stranger to long shifts and seemingly unending work days. Granted, being employed by any military branch would be a demanding career. Being part of SHIELD, personal aid to Director Nick Fury and something of a co-Director herself means that she oversees a number of Handler Agents and liaises with various team leaders on a daily basis. It is worse, without a doubt. While most days have a smooth schedule of meetings, debriefings, and paperwork, days in which there are Events always turn into something of a trial.

Today is no different. While aliens are -thankfully- not raining down on Manhattan, Maria’s precisely structured morning is interrupted with a report: Victor Von Doom has found his way to New York. Though she doesn’t know what lead up to it, it’s clear that the Latverian noble has been upset and -for want of a better target- he’s venting his frustrations with the Fantastic Four upon the innocent citizens of New York.

Hill puts quite a bit of energy into firmly ignoring the way the call from Barnes is abruptly ended. Any other agent, she would worry about, there’s no question of that. But Barnes can handle himself, has handled himself, and is old enough and proud enough to be deeply offended if she dares insinuate otherwise. So she very firmly does not worry. When the call gets dropped she swears at her empty office, slaps the receiver, and calls two of her rapid response teams to deploy to his last location.

But _calmly_ , because Barnes -and Maria herself- are goddamn professionals. So there’s no need to worry.

Anyway.

While the appearance of Victor Von Doom is something of the Fantastic Four’s responsibility, his blatant attack on New York had attracted attention. Not only had Barnes been involved on a street level incident, but several of her other agents had reported damage or traffic disruption outside their own apartment buildings or in their area, causing delays or preventing them from getting into work. The fact that IronMan had turned up and gotten involved had just added to Maria’s stress and raised further questions. There was still no telling where his loyalties truly lie or why (or how) he chose which situations to involve himself in. Then again, there was no telling who he was either, but Hill wasn’t too concerned about answering that if she could get satisfactory responses for the rest.

Practical, was Maria Hill.

Sadly, today no answers regarding those questions had been provided. However, IronMan had otherwise been remarkably amenable to giving a short field report as well as ferrying a few injured parties to awaiting Emergency Response professionals. With the Fantastic Four responsible for most of the damage costs, SHIELD was largely uninvolved with the cleanup and any further action. Hill had told her delayed agents not to come in, dispatched a few response teams, and retreated back to the New York Headquarters to try and salvage her schedule.

The fact that she’s been running ever since eight a.m. is an unfortunate side-effect of her usual rhythm being disrupted. Still, the day wasn’t utterly unsalvageable, and now that it is nearly midnight it looks like she might even be on track to having a normal day tomorrow. Regardless, there is a definite rush of relief as she steps into her silent office, closing the door behind her.

Maria sighs gratefully as the sounds of the hall and beyond are abruptly shut off, sending a quick prayer of thanks for StarkTech Soundproofing. She leans back against the door for a moment, taking several relaxing breaths reaching out blindly and flicking the light switch to illuminate the room. There’s an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction that today’s adventure was wrapped up with minimal civilian casualties and property damage. With the documents from IronMan, her response teams, and the out of office documents for her missing agents filed, the matter is officially considered closed. Today is a success, and she will gladly take it, no questions asked.

Shuffling toward her desk, Maria pauses midway across the room and smiles at the sight of the Winter Soldier in full gear laid out on the couch. The fact that he’s head to toe in black tac gear, bristling with weapons, and draped over the sofa like a house cat is an interesting mix. When James is truly relaxed he moves more like a hunting cat. There’s an automatic grace, a tension that he carries even when comfortable in his surroundings. Maria thinks it’s because he’s been a weapon so long he doesn’t know how to stop, doesn’t know how to just be human for a little while.

On an undercover op or when working an opposing party over, he’s different. When he’s feigning innocence or pretending to be non-threatening, he goes belly up and soft. It’s a trap in the way it often is with house cats; ‘ _here’s my belly, don’t I look harmless and inviting_ ’? She knows better than to get too close, that’s when he springs the whole thing and people end up captured, unconscious, bleeding or some mix of the three. With his flesh arm draped over his eyes, there’s an illusion she has the upper hand if she’s dumb enough to fall for it.

Maria Hill doesn’t buy any of the act for a moment. She knows better than that.

“I thought I told you not to come in today, Soldier?” She questions, resuming her path to the desk and settling into her office chair with a soft sigh of relief. When the Soldier still gives no response she tsks, tapping her nails impatiently on the dark wood. “I know for a fact that there was a report from a very nervous EMT… A report that stated IronMan’s favorite hobo with a headache had a minor concussion and needed to take it easy.”

Arm still hiding his face and the mask covering his nose and mouth, the Soldier responds in a deadpan tone. “I will bet you anything you want that IronMan did not call the _‘very nice guy named James’_ that he rescued a _‘hobo with a headache’_.”

She can’t read his expression with the goggles and the mask, but she’s willing to bet his expression isn’t amused. Too bad for him, she thinks it’s _hilarious_. Maria shrugs to herself, opening the first of a stack of files to begin signing off on the reports. “No, that was me. But honestly, how often is the Winter Soldier a damsel in distress?”

“It sounds like you.” He mutters. “My, Hill, how sexist of you. I’ll have you know that the Winter Soldier was at no point a damsel, or in distress. A _very nice guy named James_ may have been in distress, but he handled it. So do I have an assignment or what?”

 _‘Disney references… Why am I not surprised he makes Disney references?’_ Maria thinks to herself, hiding a smile. Aloud she replies while working her way through the files, pausing to tap the nearest one with a pen. “You mean you’re not here to give your report of the situation? Looks like you did, since it’s here. So why don’t you go home and sleep it off.”

“Ain’t gonna sleep for hours, and my ears ain’t ringin’ anymore.” The Soldier responds, sitting upright. “You got somethin’ for me, or not?”

“Tomorrow is your day off, Soldier.”

“That ain’t what I asked, Hill.”

“There’s no need for the Winter Soldier in the field on behalf SHIELD or any of our STRIKE teams at this time,” Maria replies, continuing to work her way through the stack of files.

“Maria…” He murmurs. “That wasn’t a no.”

She doesn’t want to give in, but it isn’t often he says her first name. Especially in that soft, brittle tone of voice. Maybe today shook him up worse than either of them realized, but nowadays SHIELD doesn’t treat trauma by throwing an agent directly into high-tension field work. They usually recommend therapy. It’s not a method that will work with the Winter Soldier, but she’d feel too guilty if she tried it ‘the old fashioned way’ and things got worse because of it.

Truth be told, none of the therapists will willingly work with the Winter Soldier. Partially because of the fact that when he was first recruited he worked them all over, one by one, as they tried to do his entry assessment. Never lifted a finger, but somehow each and every one of them were wary and flighty in his presence. Fury thought it was an asset, Hill remained neutral on the matter. But she did concede there was no point in forcing him into an appointment, already knowing what the outcome would be.

She was already at her quota for neurotic agent meltdowns, and it was still early in the month. No point in forcing a scenario that would result in two unstable entities, with an option of one of them quitting. Winter would feel like he’d won the round, and Fury would yell at Maria for the turnover rate. More trouble than it was worth.

Instead, she gambled. “Well… I might have something, but you’ll probably hate it and you’re free to say no.”

He’s immediately sitting up straighter, tilting his head at her in question. When he speaks his tone is mild, body language saying he’s listening but not broadcasting anything overeager.

Hill has never seen him relax, but she thinks it might be borderline miraculous if it ever happens.

When the silence stretches on for a moment, there’s a tilting of the Soldier’s head.  “That’s a good way to start this conversation.”

It’s nothing less than the truth, but Hill prefers it to some of Fury’s backhanded techniques. So instead she shrugs and huffs, expression morphing into a disapproving frown. “I don’t want you to accuse me of sugar-coating things later.”

“Maria Hill, I’ve met you. I would never slander you in such a way.”

She laughs, she can’t help it. He got to her, and he might as well know it. She’s had an excruciatingly long day, and there’s not much time before her next one begins. With a sigh Maria sets aside her pen, lacing her fingers and folding her hands atop her file as she fixes a blank look on her face and looks at him.

There’s no point in trying to get in a staring contest with the Winter Soldier. The goggles are tinted, the mask an unsettling muzzle with no discernable expression. He now looks daunting, no longer belly up and draped on her couch. Now he perches at the edge, hands draped between his knees, forearms braced on his legs, waiting. He’s easily within reach of two guns and three knives, and if she moves against him now she’ll be dead before he actually understands that she was threatening him. The Soldier has no true loyalty to her or anyone else, just a facsimile of it as he attempts to integrate himself into the modern day. But killing is as easy as breathing, a part of him. It’s instinctive to him, automatic.

It probably always will be.

Maria prepares to say something, but then an idea strikes like lightning and she has to work to conceal a smile. It’s a long shot, the longest shot she’s ever taken, and she’d be the first to admit she’s no sniper. But maybe, just maybe…

“Nothing today, Soldier.” She says at last, picking her pen up. “Call me Monday morning, I should have something for you then.”

“Wha- Monday?” He snaps, finding his feet.

Maria’s relieved to get some sort of reaction, gestures that are more _James_ than _Winter_. Then again, he’s still too tangled up, damaged and secretive for her to really know anything. She just has to guess.

_‘Here’s hoping I don’t guess wrong.’_

“Yes, it’s the day after the day after tomorrow?” She retorts blandly. “You see, tomorrow is your day off. The day after is Sunday.”

“But I should be-”

“Weren’t you in an incident involving falling debris from a recently damaged building? The resulting trip to medical professionals courtesy of IronMan was hardly discrete, and a concussion is certainly cause for concern.” She replies blandly. “You should be enjoying your break, or I’ll push our phone call to Tuesday and any possible jobs to Wednesday.”

“Maria!”

“I could give the one I have in mind to Natasha, I understand she could use some light duty with her ribs in their current condition.”

In response, the Winter Soldier growls, shifting his stance and clenching his hands at his sides. Hill takes the silence for acquiescence, since hoping for gratitude is too much. Instead, she unfolds her hands and reaches for her pen, signing off on the file without looking at him again.  “Enjoy it, won’t you? Use the time to take that bike of yours to a shop and get it worked on, hmm? Maybe you’ll be at the office by the time superheroes start falling from the sky.”

There are several beats of silence, and then a sigh. “Goodnight Hill.”

Maria signs off on another file and glances up to return the farewell, faced with an empty office. She can’t help but smile at the vacated couch and the perfect stillness of the room, shaking her head in quiet amazement. There had only been heartbeats of silence between her reply, his farewell, and the return of her attention to him, yet… He was gone. More impressively, Maria hadn’t seen light from the hallway, hadn’t heard the click of a closing door or the retreating stomp of his boots… Nevertheless, he was gone. “Man, I really need to figure out how he does that.”

A ghost story, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not any identity porn in this chapter, because somehow James and Maria's working relationship got out of control. Still, I enjoyed writing it and wanted to drop an update. Up next? More identity porn! Double IP doubled means... quadruple? What if I triple it... *ponders*  
> Also Hercules references, because I'm a damn Disney kid.


	3. Chapter 3

With at least two days off and no hint to his possible op except _‘you’ll hate it’_ , James takes the only intelligent course of action and opts for a strategic retreat out of Hill’s office. In light of his handler’s current view of the situation and the timeline she’s given him, he prefers to leave SHIELD property behind and falls back to his studio apartment.

There’s a certain level of amusement to be found in moving through the city unseen, but it does remind him that he could stand to have his motorcycle in working order again. Still, the trip to his apartment building is more roof-running than walking on the street, and he enjoys the brief sensation of flight as he leaps from roof to roof.

It’s no ride on Air IronMan, but it’s not so bad.

He lands on the roof of the nearest neighboring building, pausing to glance up at the windows to his apartment in search of any sign of tampering. Everything seems to be in order, from the empty twine of the fire escape on the far corner of the building to the soft rustle of the rooftop garden a few floors above his head. Boots crunching softly in the gravel that covers the roof, James strides across the rooftop to the fire-escape and begins quickly descending, eyes regularly scanning his building and the surrounding sidewalk. In no time at all, he’s down to the ground level, across the street, and slinking into his building through a keypad locked side-door.

The stately brick building that houses his apartment is a stoic construction, unremarkable amongst several fellows. It’s not quite the old flop of his youth but there’s a certain familiarity to it, perhaps due to the way the wooden floors groan under the unfamiliar tread and the windows look out over the similarly-shaped buildings. No swell view, but he keeps the blinds and drapes closed and doesn’t pay it much mind. An echo of his old home or not, he’s nearly positive the inhabitants of the lower floors also work for SHIELD and avoids them on principle.

Still, that meant that no innocent bystanders would be caught in the potential crossfire, should a retrieval team find him. It was unlikely, with him working for SHIELD and their interest in covering any tracks he might leave. Aside from that, there was also the way the apartment buildings blend into each other and his precaution with entry and exit to consider. His apartment and even the floor or two below him had a bird’s-eye view to the neighboring roofs, should HYDRA ever try to make a move. Between that and his easy access to the rooftop garden with its inviting sniper nests, he was fairly content.

Let Hydra hunt for their Winter Soldier. If they were good enough they’d find their best assassin in a nondescript brick building in Brooklyn, courtesy of SHIELD. Then they’d have to deal with all the SHIELD agents that function as his neighbors they weren’t, well, that was hardly his problem.

James smirks at the thought as he kicks his door closed behind him, shaking his head faintly as he pushes thoughts of HYDRA out of his mind. The conversation with Maria was amusing, he’ll admit, but ultimately unsuccessful. Hill keeps her own council, and if she says two days she means it. James won’t risk annoying her by pushing, he knows there’s nothing to stop her from extending his sentence out of pure spite.

 _‘Tasha could learn a thing or two from Maria.’_ He thinks to himself as he locks his door, tossing his keys into the catch-all dish on his counter as he passes with a faint wince. He strips and stows weapons even as he reconsiders the matter, shaking his head.   _‘Nevermind, that’s a_ **_terrifying_ ** _thought.’_

Beyond the lights of the city, the night’s already turning that weird pre-dawn bright, furthered by the city’s glow. Annoyed, James stomps to his room and strips out of his gear, stowing it with brisk, sharp movements. Weapons secured or stashed around the apartment and gear folded away for a good cleaning later, he showers and throws himself in bed to stare at the ceiling until he falls asleep. At no point does he have what he would consider a successful idea for revenge against Hill, but he sure as hell thinks about it until consciousness slips away into dreams that linger in shades of black and white.

 *

When James wakes up the next morning he does about a hundred pushups and a hundred situps to get the day started, then showers off the sweat of his workout. Most of the time spent under the water is put to use in trying to shake the half-remembered images that are half memory and half nightmare, to limited success. With a snarl he eventually gives up, cutting off the water as he gets out and towels off. He flings the towel over the door and pulls on boxer briefs to stalk through his room.

In the top drawer of the dresser, there’s a small plastic tub that rattles and clunks as he retrieves it. He removes the lid with a snap and tosses it aside, revealing all matter of tools for his arm. In spite of the jostling, they rest neatly in their trays, which he removes and sets aside so he can reach for the skin-toned covering designed to fit over his metal hand as camouflage. The silicon and latex blend rolls on easily over his metal hand, muffling the soft sound of servos as well as hiding the shiny metal surface. It’s good enough camouflage for most people, gives them one less thing to stare at him about, one less reason to pick him out of a crowd.

With the sleeve in place, he reaches for the rest of his clothes. Truth be told, without the secure press of the leather uniform James always feels somewhat unsettled. No doubt it speaks to too much time spent as the Winter Soldier, too long without choice, where his only comfort was the routine of it all. To counter the unrest he favors layers when he’s not in uniform, a tee under a henley under a denim jacket. The layering is soothing, which helps when he ties up his hair in a tail and immediately feels strangely exposed even if he hasn’t left the apartment yet.

“Snap out of it.” He growls at his reflection in the mirror as he stalks past.

Dressed and with two daggers and a pistol stored on his person, James eats breakfast on automatic. He splits his time between staring balefully out at the city and then over at the clock in turn. Time is creeping by and it feels like he has nothing to fill the hours between now and the faintest hope of a job. Maybe he annoyed Maria and forgot about it? After all, Hill knows that James hates having days off. Hates having time to fill with no clear outlet.

Steve is still out, deployed in Europe on a stealth mission with the Archer and the Widow, minimal contact for at least two more weeks. The Captain hadn’t wanted to go, but James had encouraged it, sure that time apart would be good for the both of them. He regretted it, in some ways, but in others, it was nice to not have Steve’s kicked-puppy expression following him every minute of the day. Sam was out on a mission of his own, working with a few SHIELD agents, and nowhere near close enough for James to annoy for his own amusement. His options were limited, so it looked like he was in charge of his schedule today. It was his call.

Guess that means he's going to get his damn motorcycle fixed afterall.

*

In most -if not all- situations, Hydra wanted their perfect weapon to be nothing more than a living tool. Capable of following orders given, but unable to make his own decisions. Unable to outfit himself for missions, unable to function in standard society. They wanted him as mute as possible, as dependant as possible. Obedient, pliant to their will, efficient in serving their goals.

As an agent for SHIELD, he is different. Maria makes no demands over his weapons or wardrobe, though she may council him if she feels he is under or over reacting. She is not hands on in the field, instead preferring to give him details on their goal and allows him to find his own path there. Unlike Hydra she also lets him do more than eliminations, insists on him having days off, on having hobbies, on making his own choices.

She teases and pokes at him too, which he’s slowly growing more fond of. Sometimes he even knocks on her office door and waits for her invitation before stepping in. Not enough for her to grow suspicious, but enough that she still reacts with surprise when he sneaks his way in. It’s become something of a game of theirs. They’re something approaching friends, he thinks with some surprise.

Friends or not, when she said that he had the days off and she didn’t want to hear from him, she meant it. Which means he might as well go ahead and get his bike fixed, he rationalizes, because there isn’t much else for him to do until she says so. So, with no other options but to wait for Hill to feel merciful, Bucky decides to suck it up and distract himself.

The first thing he does, largely for entertainment value, is head to SHIELD to break into Sam’s room and steal the keys to his pickup. There’s minimal risk involved as the Falcon is out on mission, so he probably won’t even have a clue that the truck is gone… Unless Bucky takes a picture and sends it to him to tell him so. Which he might later, if he’s honest, it seems like it’d be entertaining as hell to watch Wilson get in a swivet via text, knowing he won’t be back for at least a week to actually retaliate.

But that’s for later. For now, Bucky drives the gleaming pickup around to a smaller garage on SHIELD property and loads his bike into the bed of it, humming as he works. Securing the Harley with tie down straps and throwing himself back into the driver seat, he blinks in surprise at the listing of an address on a screen set into the console. It’s a mechanic shop in Brooklyn, not too far from his apartment.

“Damn Hill, you work fast, don’tcha?” He mutters to thin air, not expecting a reply. With a shake of his head, he reads the directions once again and heads out, poking at the radio until a more satisfying channel is located and music pours out of the speakers. Maybe he’ll change all of Wilson’s radio presets too, it depends on how long the shop thinks it’ll take to fix his baby.

Either way, today is looking up.

*

Arriving at the garage, Bucky parks Sam’s truck in the lot and strolls to the big bay doors, peering in to survey the realm of noise and grease and half-bodied vehicles. There’s a sweet looking vintage Impala in the far corner, the most together of the lot, painted glossy black and with the chrome on her shining like new. She gets a nod because Bucky can admire the care and power the car exudes, he’s not impressed with a lot of the newer styles but some of the older dames sure do turn his head.

Next to the Impala, there’s a project truck, an old Ford that’s being stripped down and overhauled from the looks of things. Bucky’s pretty sure he can see a wooden-spoked wheel leaning near the bumper, half-painted and partially stripped. No one’s working on it right now but it seems an intensive project, which makes him nervous as to the timeline they’ll offer for his bike.

Maybe they can order the parts for him and he’ll work on her himself. Never too late to learn, right?

He shakes the idea off for a moment, quietly admonishing himself against abandoning all hope because he’s sure Hill would do the same if she were here. Likely by swatting him upside the head, if he’s honest, but he’ll take the reprieve where he can get it.

 _‘Don’t count it out just yet, find someone to talk to.’_ Snarks a voice in his head that is either Hill or Tasha or some terrifying fusion of them both.

Shuffling through the strange garage, James ducks under a lifted vehicle and dodges around a large tool cabinet and the blue Corvette sprawling behind it. Though the paint is faded and a good part of the engine appears to be hanging from a nearby chain, there's still enough guts in her to be worked on. A mechanic in oil-stained denim coveralls stands hunched under and inside the hood of the robin’s egg blue car, swearing as he wrestles with an uncooperative bolt. Bucky gives the man a wide berth and a sympathetic glance, though he’s pretty certain it goes unnoticed by the mechanic. Still, he notes that with his shoulders and back protected by a denim jacket, he easily looks at home among the mechanics and their half-repaired vehicles. Maybe his right hand is too clean to sell that he’s been working here, but he certainly feels like he could be.

There’s something comforting about this place.

Skirting into the next bay, James draws to a halt to admire a half-visible pair of denim-covered legs sprawling out from under the front end of an older muscle car. The vehicle is dark, tucked into the corner of the bay and half-tarped. She’s definitely in need of a new paint job and a good wash and about a dozen other things, but the double “S” on the grill has been recently brushed off until it shines again, and the soft clanking from under the vehicle is accompanied by excited muttering. Between the muscle car and the well-muscled thighs that arch and shift as their owner slides further under the vehicle, Bucky could find himself _real_ fond of this place, _real_ fast. 

There's an excited spree of mumbling, something about _original parts_ and _better working order_ than one could dream of. But it's all directed toward someone named Bobby, whom James has yet to meet. At a loss, James plants his shoulder against a stationary toolbox and watches in amusement. Whoever is sprawled under the vehicle clearly has a fondness for her, in addition to having a nice pair of legs. Granted they’re on the shorter side but still well-muscled, clad in dark jeans that look new and sharp looking black boots. Practical and a little rugged, but clean.

James is willing to bet the guy has money and if he does work here, he hasn’t been here long enough for the grease to stick to him. Still, it’s worth a shot and he ain't here to stare at nice thighs all day. He clears his throat in a gentle cough. “ ‘scuse me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More identity porn on the way, but there are some Fandom Crossover Easter Eggs in this chapter (as well as references to my family's personal vehicle collection). If you can pick 'em out, I'll write you a drabble of your choice provided it's a fandom I have knowledge in. Do you want to take a guess? 
> 
> For those that don't know: Recent hiatus brought on by family emergencies. A heart attack and surgery, an unexpected attack and recent death. I've had a hard time of it lately, but making a comeback.  
> Love y'all.


	4. Chapter 4

Depending on how you look at things, Tony Stark has between three and four different full-time jobs. The first of which is being Tony Stark, the outrageous playboy philanthropist that all of New York society and the world expects him to be. He doesn’t often look at his social calendar beyond a two to three-day window, because the sheer insanity and volume of the thing would make him lunge for the nearest bottle of hard liquor. The countless parties, banquets, galas, speaking engagements, ribbon-cutting ceremonies, and high-roller functions severely eat into any attempt at a normal life. 

The expectations for Tony Stark are a separate animal from the social and business obligations of Tony Stark, CEO. Admittedly this is one of Tony’s least-favorite jobs, as it involves countless dull meetings with varying boards and committees. Still, the CEO position requires numerous important meetings with business contacts, affiliated companies, and varying controlling boards or panels to ensure that everything goes through the proper channels for design, production, testing, full-scale production, marketing, and sales. 

This, of course, is also separate from everything that Tony Stark, Head of R&D has to tackle on a daily basis. Important things like the concept, design, production, and testing of new products. But at least R&D is the fun stuff; the inventing and building and breaking apart and sometimes exploding stuff. (Which becomes less fun when an explosion makes Pepper appear in his space like an angry ginger dragon, but that’s another matter entirely.) 

All of these roles are separate from and say nothing of the requests and invitations that Dr. Tony Stark received for speaking engagements, consultations, conferences, and the like. So many inquiries that one would think the commitments and responsibilities of the other three Tonys were nonexistent. Which they aren’t, by any means. Sufficient to say: he’s busy. 

And all of that is before you take Iron Man into account. Iron Man, the metal-suited hero who regularly saves New York, hunts down dangerous enemies, destroys illegal weapons caches. Iron Man, who Stark Industries has publically spoken in support of. A masked employee working in a specialized suit designed and built by SI’s own Dr. Tony Stark. A man in a metal mask with no known identity, functioning covertly as Tony Stark’s bodyguard, but also as a globally conscious hero. 

Iron Man, another name for Tony Stark. 

Only no one -except Pepper and Rhodey- even knows that. The rest of the world certainly doesn’t. All they know is they’re really annoyed when Tony Stark (whichever one that may refer to) doesn’t arrive at their function on time. Which, Tony understands. Sometimes he even agrees with them. A terrifying thought, slightly mitigated by the rarity. It’s really only in situations where he finds himself in a smoking crater instead of sipping drinks at a black tie event or blowing something up with a repulsor in his labs. But it varies from day to day. 

Today, thankfully, the world doesn’t need any of the Tony Starks. Or Iron Man, so far. So today finds Tony -just Tony- sprawled on his back on a dolly. Happily, he’s wheeled himself beneath the dusty old carcass of a Chevelle in the middle of a mechanic’s shop in Brooklyn and is poking away at things. Then again, this is not just any mechanic’s shop. It’s the garage of one grumpy, tech-challenged old man named Bobby Singer. Bobby, who has helped Tony get his hands on a couple of cars through the years, and has only ever cared about how he restored them. Not about how much Tony would pay to have the things, not about the fact that it’s Tony Stark standing in his garage. Just the fact that Tony puts in the work, and does a good job of it. 

As far as Bobby is concerned, Tony’s alright. As far as Tony’s concerned, Bobby is awesome. 

Today more so than any other day, perhaps. Today Tony maybe, sorta, possibly wants to propose marriage to Bobby Singer. No, wait, not to Bobby, to the car. The old man had gotten his hands on an old Chevelle that ‘just looked like something Tony would like to work on’ and ‘decided to drop him a line’. He hadn’t expected a visit in person, just a distracted agreement email to be sent along in a day or two. 

Instead? Instead. One Tony Stark, bright eyed and bushy tailed, staring at the car with a covetous sort of glee. 

“If I say tentatively yes do I get to look her over to be sure?” Tony dimly heard himself mutter, all of his attention focused on the car in question. 

The old mechanic gave him a look. "If I say no will you keep your hands off her?"

"You couldn't pay me enough, Singer." Tony knows he's grinning fit to bust and he couldn't care less. 

"That's cuz you're a rich boy." Bobby retorted. "Guess I could say yes since we both know at the end of the day you're takin' her home."

"Maybe I just want to talk to her for a bit, make sure she likes me?" 

“Whatever blows your skirt up, boy,” Bobby grunted. “You’re the one most likely to treat her right if she is, anyhow.”

It's a compliment, by the grumpy old mechanic's standards. It's practically high praise. If Tony were the sort to brag, he'd be calling Pepper up to gush in the next five minutes. But he's not, at least not right now.

“You mean I’ll pay what is needed to restore her rather than souping her up into some modern hot rod?” Tony grinned.

“Ain’t that what I said?”

Alright, so maybe he’s a little fond of Bobby.

"Sure old man, that's what you said." He grins. "Get out of the way, will you?" 

***

Tony’s just naturally drifting out of the zone when he hears a distant throat clearing and a tentative greeting. “ ‘scuse me?”

The tone it’s delivered in is polite, inquisitive and a little soft. But there’s gravel in the voice, a bit of drawl that doesn’t jive with a Manhattan tongue but sings just fine in Brooklyn. There’s maybe a small part of Tony that goes on instant alert.  _Oh._

It doesn’t sound like Bobby, the owner of the garage and the man who called him in about his new lady, but there’s no telling who it might be from here. Bobby has a pretty steadily shifting stable of help, and there’s every chance that a patron has come in through the bays to poke around rather than heading to the office.

 _‘Don’t cost Bobby business.’_ Tony admonishes himself as he reluctantly wheels himself out from under the car and sits up slowly. _‘Just be polite and tell them you can’t help…Do something useful like pointing them toward the office.'_

He makes a show of glancing around, reading the whole of the garage that he can see where he sits. There’s a handsome man in a wearing a denim jacket and lurking just out of reach when Tony wheels himself out from under his newest crush, a somehow forgotten and recently rediscovered 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS. The stranger is probably the one who spoke, but there’s a lazy sort of patience in his stance that makes Tony in no hurry to answer. Not that he is an employee here anyway. 

Bobby, the owner of the garage and a grumpy old piece of work, had called Tony specifically because he suspected the Chevelle was an LS6, quite an elusive bit of bait that Tony snapped at without hesitation. Upon arriving Tony had confirmed the old man’s suspicions with a quick once-over and a look under the hood. That matter handled, he had gleefully agreed to buy her before wheeling himself under the vehicle on a dolly to look at what he was working with. Bobby might have been surprised by his willingness, then again, maybe not. He’d clearly decided it was a better use of his time to head into another bay or maybe the office, leaving Tony to his new sweetheart. 

Tony’s willing to go on record saying the Chevelle’s a sweet thing -a real cherry- and he can’t wait to get her home to work on her. She’s new, in a way, since he doesn’t have one like her in any of his garages. Granted, there were only about twenty of them made anyway, so that alone makes her interesting. She needs work, definitely gonna be a project car; but Tony’s got funds to spare. More than that, he’s an old hand at dealing with Bobby and willing to throw quite a bit of money down for her in to take her home, in spite of the work she’ll need.

She’s still a queen found hidden in an old barn, a forgotten gem.

That being said, she doesn’t hold a candle to the pretty thing standing just feet away waiting for Tony to explain himself. Tall, long-legged and built, the brunet has hair down to his fine jaw and blue eyes that walk the line between ice and ocean. He's full-lipped, distinctly stubbled, and got an air about him that is half exotic predator and half boy next door.

Distracted, Tony pats her bumper fondly, disregarding the grease on his hands and the dirt on his clothes as he fights the urge to gape open-mouthed. 

 _‘Hello, Gorgeous.’_ Tony thinks to himself. _‘It’s been a hot minute since I’ve seen you, hasn’t it?’_

“Sorry to bother you.” The stranger offers in a soft, sheepish tone. “Was wonderin’ if you could help a fella out?”

_‘Boy, would I like to…’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who isn't dead?


	5. Chapter 5

James feels like any mechanic shop that dares to offer this level of eye-candy should have some sort of warning sign, because it just ain’t fair to spring this on some unsuspecting potential customer. What if they have a bad heart? Or they’re married, or engaged? Will they ever be able to look their partner in the eye again? How can they be expected to deal with the idea of  _ this _ sliding calloused hands carefully over their vehicle? Calling her pet names and asking where it hurts? 

So maybe he’s taking things a little far in his head, but no jury would convict him. They’d just take one look at the mechanic and congratulate James on his good taste. As well they should, the man looks downright  _ edible _ . It’s no wonder he’s having a hard time focusing. 

Granted, upon walking into the garage James was expecting to encounter men with muscles, to some degree. Who wouldn’t? But he honestly would have voted there would be dirty coveralls, at least three middle-aged men, and possibly a lit cigarette or two. Instead, there are gracefully muscular legs inching out from under the car, like some garage striptease. The legs lead to arching hips that give way to a leanly muscled torso, hidden by a fitted tee that may be trying its best but certainly doesn’t hide a thing.  _ ‘And ain’t I grateful for that?’ _

There’s lots to be grateful for, as the man fully appears from beneath the car. James will easily admit that the compact man in front of him is easily the prettiest thing he’s seen in ages, and he’s regularly surrounded by some of the finest agents in the world. So honestly, that’s saying something. But then the man sits up and smiles in a distant, welcoming sort of way and James is more than a little bit lost.

_ ‘Who let him smile like that? What is going on with that goatee and why do I like it? Son of a bitch, are his arms gorgeous _ . _ ’  _ James hears his inner monologue go into hyperdrive, cooing admirations of this mechanic who just happened to turn out to be  _ unfairly handsome _ . 

Even more unfair is how he manages to look so with a streak of grease over one cheek and oil clinging to his hands and forearms. It’s probably the eyes, they’re large and a deep brown, doe-like and surrounded by long lashes. He’s familiar in a way that a lot of people come to be; like the Soldier has seen him out of the corner of one eye while in route to one place or another. Not someone he’s had a full-on altercation with, but definitely one he’s seen several times, though not in the same context. 

_ ‘Where do I know you from?’ _ James wonders, tilting his head and offering a smile as he waits for the stranger to respond.  _ ‘Why the hell haven’t I talked to you if I’ve seen you before? I know I’ve seen you before.’ _

_ ‘Huh… Certainly didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.’ _ Tony stares up at the man for several heartbeats before snapping back to the present, coughing to clear his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that, I was, my mind was elsewhere. I’d be happy to help but I’m afraid that I don’t actually work here?” 

He pauses and gives a soft laugh, running an oil-stained hand through his hair. Which is decidedly not suave, but there’s no Pepper around to laugh at him, so he’ll live. Truth be told it’s not like it does much damage anyway, there’s already grease there from being under the engine, but at least it puts the dark mass into some semblance of order. “The owner is in the main office if you keep heading toward the front? Just through that door.” 

With another smile, Tony jerks his thumb toward a door in the far wall, opposite of where James is standing, then reaches for a towel to try and wipe some of the mess off of his hands. The white cloth has black smudges from his fingers and even whole handprints within moments. “I’m Tony, by the way. Excuse me if I don’t offer to shake, but I should probably spare you. If the word of a complete stranger matters at all, this shop is great. Singer can get just about anything to run, and I say that as someone who has brought him some really interesting projects over the years.” 

“Yeah?” James finds himself grinning down at the guy, nodding in relief. “That’s good to hear. I got a bike that I’m real fond of but she up and quit on me. Not a professional about this sort of thing but I’m pretty sure whatever I broke is out of my league to fix. If I want her running again anytime soon, I figure I need to consult a professional.” 

“Makes sense.” Tony grins back, rolling the dolly just a little further out from under the car and preparing an attempt to find his feet. There’s not really a way to make it graceful, he doesn’t really want to grab the stranger or the car, with the mass of oil and dirt on his hands. “Bobby will take good care of you, and he should have room in this bay for her. This Chevelle is on her way out.” 

“That thing looks dangerous, why don’t you let me give you a hand?” Bucky offers, leaning over and extending his right hand without any hint of hesitation. He’ll get his hands on this man any way he can manage it. “Don’t mind dirt, I’m gonna have to haul the bike out of my friend’s truck anyhow.”

“My hero.” Tony laughs, accepting the gentle grasp of James’s palm and using the hold to lever himself to his feet. James must tug when he does, because he’s bolt upright and swaying forward before he knows it, leaning heavily into the taller man’s space. “Oh, sorry about that.”

It’s a trick right out of the cliche book, but Tony doesn’t mind at all. 

“I ain’t.” James rumbles, seemingly without thinking, before he clears his throat and straightens. “That is to say, I don’t mind. Don’t worry about it.”

“Can’t be done with her already.” Grumbles a third voice, startling them both into jumping apart. 

As Tony turns his head, he catches Bobby’s eye and winces at the smirk the old man is shooting his way. “Bobby.”

“The Chevelle no good?” Bobby wonders around a grin. “You sure moved on from her awful fast.” 

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Tony grumbles, fighting down his blush. “She’s great and I’m taking her home, thanks. A trailer will be here in a couple hours to pick her up, and you have my information on file for the payment.” 

“Sure.” The old mechanic shrugs, gestures to James with a gruff drawl. “He a friend of yours?”

“Just doing my part to not run off paying customers, Singer.” Tony snips at him. “Since you asked, James here has a lady that’s in need of your attention and I should head out. I’ll leave you to it!” 

He pauses long enough to give the Chevelle a fond look, fingertips gliding over the paint. “Don’t worry, Sweetheart. Now that I know where it hurts, I’ll be able to set up and give you the welcome home party you deserve. You just stay here a bit longer for me, hmm?”

“If all yer gonna do is coo at her, you can get the hell out, Tony,” Bobby grumbles. “There are paying customers that need attention.”

“I’m sure James would appreciate a professional’s opinion.” Tony grins, winking at the man and knowing their time together is drawing to a close. “And since I’m only a professional pain in the ass, I’ll leave you boys to it. Good luck with the bike, James.” 

The soldier watches the pretty mechanic dart out of reach, unsure how to salvage the conversation long enough to get more information out of him.  He settles for a weak wave and a half smile, feeling Singer’s eyes like a weight. “Ah, thanks for your time Tony.”

“Sure thing.” Tony grins over his shoulder, brown eyes bright as he strides toward the bay door and the sunlight beyond. “Any time.” 

James wishes he meant it, but in a city of over eight and a half million people, the reality is he’ll probably never see Tony again. Which is a  _ damn _ shame. Because that? That was a gorgeous man.

Hill can never find out about this, he knows he couldn’t stand the laughter. 

“So, bike trouble?” Bobby mutters.

James nods. “Uh, yeah. She’s in the bed of the pickup outside.”

“Well alright, let’s see what we’re workin’ with.” 

With a sigh, James bids farewell to the memory of Tony’s smile and leads the gruff old man out to where he let Sam’s truck parked. The sooner the old mechanic looks over his bike, the sooner they can move onto fixing it and that’ll be one less inconvenience on his plate. There’s plenty of time to muse over attractive mechanics once he retires, anyway. 

It’s probably for the best, anyway. He is still sort of hung up on IronMan, after all. 

*

It isn’t till James is sprawled over his bed that night, musing over leaving his bike in Bobby’s care, that he realizes he never told Tony his name. Yet, the mechanic had easily grinned at Bobby and mentioned it, more than once, before he had departed. The thought alone makes the Soldier sit bolt upright, rubbing furiously at his face as he tries to jog his memory. 

To his great annoyance, he still hasn’t managed to figure out why the man looks so familiar. The fact that Tony knew his name narrows down the field somewhat, but doesn’t bring him any closer to an actual answer. 

He doesn’t know why, but he thinks it’s probably Maria Hill’s fault. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updaaaaate. *jazz hands*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note, in this chapter there is a mention of a hero speaking with people to prevent suicide attempts. Again, this is a just a suicide mention, no one in the story is actively suicidal. I just want everyone aware as this is a potential trigger issue.

The Soldier has been staring up at the ceiling for hours, annoyed but resigned. At a loss for what to do with himself as the clock ticks over to eleven, James heaves a heavy sigh as he sits up and flips aside the blankets. At this point, it’s a pretty good bet he won’t be getting to sleep any time soon. So he shoots a final glare at the clock as climbs out of bed. 

It’s a habit that he sleeps clothed, though he quickly strips and tosses aside the sleep pants in favor of pulling on a pair of black jeans. Habit also keeps his boots at his bedside so he steps into them immediately, stalking silently out of his room and into the living area. Not that things are better out there, unless he decides to watch television or something. 

Predictably, the apartment is empty and dark and quiet. His bike is in the shop, he has no current missions for SHIELD and there’s a good chance Hill will have no new missions for him out of sheer spite. Without Steve in town, he doesn’t really have anyone to spar with, and with the Falcon gone, there’s no one to prank. Natasha is out on her own mission, as is Barton, so he doesn’t even have the luxury of his backup sparring partner or prank war victim. 

Beyond annoyed by the limitations on entertainment, James stalks to the counter to scoop up his wallet and keys, tossing them into the pocket of a leather jacket he plucks from the back of one of the bar chairs. Pulling it on as he moves past the bar, he assesses the apartment for a moment and then heads for the window, unlocking it and sliding it wide open. The fire escape is faster than the hallway, and less likely to be occupied. 

A moment later he’s out the window and sprinting up the shaky metal structure, taking three in each stride as he heads to the roof. There’s light everywhere, from buildings near and far, casting watery, rippling shadows that offer little in terms of coverage. Still, James moves swiftly enough he’s willing to bet he doesn’t need coverage, throwing himself up onto the rooftop and landing in a crunch of gravel. He freezes as soon as he’s up there, glancing around for any sight of neighbors or previous occupants. 

The section of rooftop nearest to him is fairly empty, low section covered in grit and gravel, and the slightly raised concrete slab kept clear for the yoga group that met bi-weekly. Scattered across the rooftop are varying objects, a strung up shade over a sitting area near the stairwell cube perched off to the right. Between that and the empty space is an old garden table and several miss-matched chairs. Off to the left are giant planters, a few built up beds and a couple of benches. Together they form a modest garden, the work of a few tenants that would prefer fresh herbs and vegetables. Still, all the sitting areas are empty and there aren’t many places for someone to set an ambush, so he’s reasonably sure he’s alone. 

Shuffling across the roof to one of the nearer planters, James plucks a few mint leaves with his bare metal hand and tosses them in his mouth as he moves to the far wall of the roof. There’s at least a decent breeze coming in as he folds his arms just below his chest and leans over the brick, chewing on the mint and gazing out at the cluster of buildings between him and the water. The roar of traffic isn’t ever far off, like the lights of this city, but the hang of clouds like it might rain casts a foggy veil over the more distant structures. Beyond the fog, Manhattan is lit up like always, spires of lights twisting up into the clouds. 

James has always thought of Brooklyn as home, but it’s nice to let his eyes drift over the towering buildings that form the skyline. Idly he tries to apply names to them, though at this distance there are only a dozen or so with enough stand-out architecture that they stick in his mind. Steve would be better at this sort of thing, but Steve’s got a mind like a steel trap and just memorizes stuff before moving on. 

_ ‘Which is as good as cheating, really,’ _ James argues to himself as he continues to squint and stare at the distant structures. 

He doesn’t even notice the glow of an approaching star until it resolves itself to a glimmer of metal and the low whine of repulsors. With a faint sweeping gesture of glowing palms, the suit whooshes to a halt just above him, cocking its head in question. He can’t even find it in himself to react, just rolls his head back on his neck and arches an eyebrow at the hovering suit. 

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” It’s a cool sort of greeting, but in his chest he thinks his heart might have just turned a summersault. “I hope it ain’t stalkin’, that sorta thing in a hero? Not the best trait.”  

“Hello to you too,” Sasses back IronMan. The suit hesitates for a moment, then makes a humming sort of sound. “Well, you don’t look concussed.” 

“Boy, good thing you’re flyin’ everywhere or you’d surely be beatin’ dames off with a stick. Sweet-talkin’ like that, how could they resist?” James finds himself teasing, his smile widening, as he tilts his head up to consider the armor. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.  Neither of us are medical professionals, remember? ‘Sides, how can you tell from up there?” 

“I sort of have this image of you being dizzy and unbalanced, if that were the case,” IronMan admits. “You’re leaning on the wall just fine, and you haven’t pitched over. Not to mention the diagnostics in the suit, of course. Gonna go with no concussion.” 

“I could pretend to fall if it’d make you feel better,” He offers with a shrug. “Just to throw you and your fancy diagnostics for a loop. But no, no concussion.” 

“Glad to hear it,” The suit sinks down a little lower, boots nearing James’s eye-level, still yards out of reach by normal human standards. “If you did fall, I’d catch you.” 

By the Soldier’s standard? James knows he could make a grab if he needed to, but it sort of seems like Iron Man is coming to him… and there’s no small feeling of satisfaction blazing in his chest at the idea. He can be patient for a few more minutes, since that’s the case. 

“Yeah,” He murmurs, voice going soft as he feels some of the tension draining away. “I know you would.” 

Nevermind the fact that he wouldn’t need it. He could catch himself on the brickwork of the building, or just take the landing. The Soldier had walked away from worse falls. But to Iron Man’s knowledge, the nice man named James from the other day hadn’t ever really seen action. Just tried to help out when a normal street turned into a war zone. 

The helmet tilts, IronMan dropping a little lower as it considers him. “Do you now?”

“Well you are a hero,” James shrugs, flashing teeth in a broad smile. “After yesterday, you’re  _ my _ hero, even. Not sure why you’d save me from bein’ a pancake on the sidewalk and then turn up in Brooklyn just to watch me turn into a pancake on the sidewalk.”

“There you go with that silly logic nonsense,” IronMan murmurs in a faux-mournful tone and with a shake of its head. “Way to bring it back down to realism. Alright, alright, so you caught me out.”

“If I wanted to do that, I’d ask you what you were doing at my apartment building the night after saving me.” James tilts his head, arches an inquisitive brow. “I ain’t askin’, but feel free to answer.” 

“If we’re talking about things that aren’t asked but might be answered,” The hero hesitantly replies. “I will assure you that I definitely didn’t look at your medical chart or the EMT report to discern where you lived, because that would be wrong. I’ve also been reliably informed it would be creepy, which I’m trying to avoid. I did, actually, happen to be in the area and note a rooftop heat signature… And I may, possibly, have been in the neighborhood to confirm it wasn’t a jumper situation. And there’s the potential that, when I realized it was you, I decided to swing by for a visit to make sure you weren’t actually concussed. And to make sure it wasn’t a jumper situation.” 

“Pretty sure a concussion doesn’t make you want to dive off rooftops,” James muses as he watches the suit sink closer. “Though I’m neither, so all of that is irrelevant. You regularly zoom around to talk people off of ledges?”

“Kittens, too,” IronMan agrees readily, and it’s low enough now they’re more or less eye-level to each other. “But yeah, sometimes people just need to know someone’s listening. Sometimes I can be that someone, or I can get someone who is. Sometimes not, but, well, more good nights than bad.”

“That’s pretty great of you,” The Soldier admits in a soft tone, trying to infuse truth into every word. “You deal with whatever guy tossed ya across town and into that building?”

“Victor?” The suit makes a soft sound like surprise and disdain all in one. “For now, anyway. He’s the Fantastic Four’s villain du jour, I just got roped into things. I personally think if Reed would just ask the man to coffee, we’d be better off for it. Surprisingly, no one seems to care about my opinion on the matter.”

“Too bad,” James grins. “That mean you’ll have to deal with him again?”

“Someone will, and probably soon,” IronMan shakes its head. “Diplomatic immunity is a pain in the ass, I don’t know anyone in law enforcement that feels differently.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” James says rather than agreeing, though he’s certain it’s one of the few things that makes Maria Hill swear up a storm on an op. 

“Subject change, please, and I’m not above begging.” IronMan cuts in quickly, abandoning the topic with obvious relish. “I definitely didn’t sweep down here to talk to you about work.” 

_ ‘Naw, you swept down here to make sure I wasn’t gonna throw myself at the ground… The fact that you’re stayin’ is the strange part.’ _ James thinks to himself, though aloud he acquiesced. “Well then… How’s tonight shaping up for ya?”  

“Tonight?” IronMan cocks its head again, thoughtful, and James wishes he could read the smooth expression of the armor. Wishes he knew what was going on behind the mask. 

“Well, tonight’s going better than it has any right to,” IronMan gives a shrug, holding out a hand. “At the risk of pushing my luck, any chance you wanna go for a quick flight?” 

“What?” James can feel the grin expand across his face in an instant, his cool facade crumbled and gone. “You mean it?” 

“Sure do, I know the last one was short and purely for necessity.” The suit drifts closer, within an easy arm’s reach now. “I’m offering you a do-over.” 

The gauntleted hand lowering just enough that it’s not a reach up to it anymore, more like James just has to roll his arm off the wall and it’ll fall into IronMan’s grip, easy as anything. It’s almost a courtly gesture, like he’s offering assistance stepping out of a coach or a car. A gentleman’s gesture. 

There’s a head-cock that telegraphs inquiry. “What do you say, Storm-Eyes?” 

“Hey now,” Half-way to holding out his hand James pauses, pulls it back a bit with a faint frown. “That was before we introduced ourselves, remember?” 

“Hmm, no amnesia either, that’s good,” IronMan nods, somehow exuding approval and pleasure at the idea. “James, then. What do you say to a quick dance through the air above Brooklyn, hmm,  _ James _ ? I won’t take you too far, and I’ll have you home before the street lamps turn off. What d’ya say?” 

_ Before _ the street lamps turn  _ off _ ? That’s sunrise, more or less. At this point, it’s almost midnight. Midnight and IronMan now knows where he lives. Admittedly James should probably sleeping, or tending to his gear, working out, doing any number of things inside his apartment. No doubt that SHIELD will know, somehow, if he leaves. They probably have him, his apartment, the whole building under some surveillance or another. They probably already know IronMan is here, that they’re talking. 

Hill would probably freak if she finds out he’s jetting off with an unknown masked entity purely for the sake of amusement, in the dead of night. She’ll probably tell Natalia before summoning him to her office for either an interrogation or the weirdest slumber party bonding experience he’s ever been to. She might ask him if he wants her to braid his hair while he talks about his crush. 

He might tell her to go to hell. If they weren’t all so scared, it might even cost him his job. Against the distant lights of the city, IronMan hovers, metal gleaming scarlet and gold. The eye slits in the helmet, the repulsor port in palms and boot-soles, the arc reactor set in the chest all gleam blue-white and star bright. 

James knows his answer just like he knows none of the rest of it is worth turning down another flight for. “Sure.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out so big I chopped it in half to make two chapters... and then I went back and worked on the first half and basically it doubled in size again. What can ya do, right? Does anyone still read this? _*tap tap*_ Not sure. Well, I hope you guys still like this story!  
>  ❤️ ~Wardog


	7. Chapter 7

“Sure,” James says, easy as anything. He moves without thinking, without hesitation, letting his arm relax in an easy roll off the wall. It’s barely a stretch and right-hand falls into IronMan’s open palm. “Take me up, Flyboy, it’s the best offer I’ve had all night.”

“Good man,” IronMan whoops, fingers curling up as he tightens his hold on James’s hand with a gentle tug. “You won’t regret it, Gorgeous. Alright, foot up on the brickwork, step up and into me as I move. We’ll need your arms up around my neck and your boots on mine, alright? I can make this work one-handed, but I’ll need at least one free.”

“Ok,” James grips the metal hand in return, places his right heel up on the brick and steps up and into the suit as IronMan glides upward.

It’s easy as anything to continue the move into a step, his left boot bracing on top of IronMan’s armored right and wrap his metal arm up and around the back of IronMan’s neck. The curl of the suit’s right arm wraps around his waist as he gets his other foot in place, and when the hero lets his hand free he slides it up over IronMan’s other shoulder and grips his metal arm. Beneath the glide of his hand, the suit itself is cool but not cold, not as warm as last time, comfortable to the touch in spite of the power its capable of exuding. 

There’s a thrum to the power of the repulsors, the hum of flight echoing through the suit itself. Due to James’s hold, he can feel it seeping into him too, a low rumble that nests along his bones. It’s not unpleasant, doesn’t jar or irritate him, instead it’s somewhat soothing. Comforting. He is safely held, he’s not alone. The gleam of the slitted eyes soften slightly, like IronMan is making sure the light doesn’t bother him, but the hero doesn’t look away. James feels a distant thread of connection, even if he’s just looking at the helmet, he knows that the pilot inside is looking at him.

Whatever IronMan sees, there’s a faint tightening of the arm around James’s waist. The hero reels him a little closer, shuffling his boots so he’s standing more steadily. The arm slides a little lower, resting in the curve of his back, and the palm curls around his hip until he can feel the repulsor port pressing against the denim of his jeans. The hold means there’s minimal space between his chest and the gleam of the arc reactor in the center of IronMan’s. The metal sweep of the armored chest presses gently against him, but with each breath, the soft blue light sandwiched between their torsos bleeds out in thin, fragile bars.

It looks unspeakably delicate, in that moment, and James finds he leans a little firmer against the suit, shielding it with his own body. He ducks his head to one side, tucking his cheek against the shoulder and clavicle of the suit, and then sighs to himself. He can easily roll his eyes upward to look at IronMan’s face in profile, though there are no expressions for him to read the glow of eyes is comforting in some strange way. With his ear pressed to the metal of shoulder and chest he can hear the gentle hum-whine of servos and internal systems, combined with the purr of the arc reactor against his own sternum. “This ok?”

“Yeah,” IronMan says softly, the hand at his hip tightening ever so slightly. The suit glances down at him for half a heartbeat, quick as anything, then gazes upward again. “Yeah, Storm-Eyes… That’s perfect. Hold on to me.”

James smiles, shaking his head a little as he settles into the hold. “Wild horses, BrightEyes.”

“Beauty and brains and sass, be still my heart.” IronMan teases as the arm around his waist tightens. “You’re not afraid of heights, are ya?”

Thinking of his distant memories from his fall, James shakes his head slowly. “I ain’t wild about trains, but heights never bothered me none.”

“Guess we’ll find out if that’s true in a second.” The hero replies, voice neutral but a little soft before it returns to normal volume. “Well, air traffic is clear, but just in case we’ll climb quick. So, let me know if the breeze is too much.”

“I’ll be fine,” James promises. “Take me up.”

“Your wish is my command.” The helmet tips up, eyes upward, and suddenly the repulsors engage.

One arm still secured around James’s waist, IronMan boosts the power in his remaining palm and boots. The suit roars upward, smooth as anything, the wind suddenly whipping James’s hair around him and whistling past his ears. Over IronMan’s shoulder, he can see the city falling away, the scatter of dark rooftops and lighted windows from the buildings promptly vanishing below them. Moments later they’re up through the mist and some wisps of cloud, soaring into the quiet sky smooth as silk.

 _‘Wow…’_ There’s a faint bite to the breeze, mostly over his exposed face and hand, so he curls closer into the suit and lets the metal and the collar of his jacket protect him. _‘Maybe I shoulda worn gloves…’_

His face is shielded by the warm curl of the suit’s neck and shoulder, but he presses closer until his forehead is braced against the reinforced column of the suit’s throat.

“Chilled yet?” IronMan asked, sounding amused. “We can go back.”

“Like hell,” James growled. He's had worse than this from his time as the Asset, he's not going to miss out on flying with IronMan and getting a hero's eye view just because of a breeze. 

“I like your style, Storm-Eyes,” IronMan chuckled. “Next time we’ll get you a hat, maybe an extra layer, gloves. Spur of the moment manages to get me in trouble again… Well, we’re almost there.”

All James hears is _Next time_ , and if he wasn’t flying already he probably would have been at the idea. _‘Next time.’_

A moment later IronMan sweeps to a halt, carefully maneuvering boots and palm to stop and then maintain their height. It results in the suit curling around him a little more closely for a moment, then relaxing into a straight stand. Concentrating on the movement of the suit against him, it takes James a minute to realize the world around them is still. He lifts his cheek from the armor’s shoulder, staring up at glowing eyes in a gleaming faceplate before turning his head to eye their surroundings. There are scraps of cloud or mist scattered about, but they’re not too high that breathing is difficult for him. Whether it’s because he’s enhanced or because the suit was judicious in his selection of a vantage point, James can’t quite say.

He leans out slightly, looking over their layered arms and down past their boots, staring at the scatter of lights below like loose gems. It’s like being surrounded by stars, above and below. Beyond the icy breeze, the only sound around him is the hum-whisper-rumble of the suit. Even his enhanced hearing doesn’t really notice noise from the city beyond them. 

“Can see why a man would put on a suit like that,” The Soldier hears himself saying as he stares down at the city. “Everything looks awfully small, could almost forget your problems up here.”

“Almost,” IronMan agrees, strangely soft.

“Then again… Feels like it’d get lonely up here,” James observes without thinking, looking up in time to catch IronMan staring at him. “Behind that mask all by yourself.”

“I’m not alone now,” IronMan answers easily, still deceptively soft. “I’ve got you, Storm-Eyes.”

He hesitates for a moment, then makes a noise like he’s been reminded of something. “Plus, mission control is a bossy thing, he never leaves me to my own devices for long.”

James stifles the pleased hum at being listed, though it makes sense considering their current arrangement. “Mission control, huh?”   

“He means well,” IronMan shrugs. “And evidently I’m a handful and require constant supervision.”

“Ya know what?” James grins at the smooth gold faceplate, imagining the pouting that’s occurring behind it. “I could see that about you.”

“Hurtful,” IronMan clicks at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m sorry, Bright-Eyes,” James lifts his flesh hand, curls it around the jawline of the suit for a moment. “I’ll make it up to you, somehow.”

“Yeah,” The voice is soft again, maybe a little breathy. “I’m looking forward to that.”

“First things first, help me turn around,” James grins. “I want ta get a look at this first-class view you got me.”

“Alright, alright.” IronMan laughs. “I’m not letting go, just step into my right and turn. You’ve got a good grip with your left, I think you’ll be fine.”

James shrugs a bit, twisting slightly as he stepped over to Iron Man’s right boot and leaned out, into the pressure of the arm around his waist. With his hand curled around the armor’s neck, he was in no danger of falling, but the rush of wind was cool and cutting and made elation spark in his veins. Below him spread the city like a multi-textured carpet, mostly dark with twining ribbons of color and scatters of light. He could see darker clusters that marked larger properties, parks, or otherwise unlit areas. There were equally notable clusters of light, or the glittering reflection of light on water and the delicate thread of half-lit bridges twining through the dark. 

“This is amazing,” He grinned, closing his eyes as air buffed them, the playful wind carelessly throwing his hair around his face. “Kinda wish you’d drop me, free skydiving over New York off the boots of a superhero. Bet no one could claim that.”

“I’m not letting go, so you can’t claim it either.” IronMan returned with a laugh. “But you can hang out for a bit, if you like it so much. I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“Yeah, me neither,” James admits with a grin. “So you just tell me when you’re tired, TinMan.”

“If I need a heart, then you need a brain,” IronMan teased. “So you let me know when you’re tired, Scarecrow.”

“Never,” James tossed him a fierce grin. “Never.”

He might have imagined it, but the hero seemed to shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At a dog show but have some more Impressions!   
> ❤️


End file.
